Category Archives: Muriels

J Sheekey is the oldest fish restaurant in London; it’s been around for 110 years and has quite a reputation among the great and the good of this fair city of ours. Francis Bacon spent a lot of time hanging out there, on most days from lunchtime to the evening, before he popped over to The French or Muriels, he’d while away hours sampling dishes and drinking the best of the excellent cellar. In more recent years it plays host to the stars of stage (it’s right in the middle of the theatre district) and screen, keeping it’s tradition of feeding the art establishment, Damien Hirst is a regular, and it’s reputation of being a damn fine eatery over and above all the tish and fippery. At least once a week Gordon Ramsey and his wife will pop by late for fish and chippery.

So, when I got a call last week from the proprietor, inviting me out for a late lunch to discuss some business, I was duly chuffed, and, for want of better phrase, partially honoured. Yesterday afternoon I found myself outside the restaurant at the appointed time crushing a cigarette into the street before making my way through the door.

The interior is unostentatious, wood panelled walls are lined with black and white signed photographs of artists, musicians, performers etc., and neat little round tables are shrouded in white cotton cloths tidily captured by shaker style chairs. It smells woody and warm. And fishy.

I was introduced to the proprietor who I liked instantly, a stocky open-faced man with Italian locks and small moustache who made me feel at ease in an instant. I was informed that our table was ready and drinks were ordered from impeccable waiters who treated me with the courtesy reserved for those in positions of power.

It has to be said we did little business that afternoon; instead we spent 2 hours chatting, telling anecdotes and eating and drinking… My companion ordered a delicious bottle of Brolio and the venison (much to my amusement). I was intrigued to know what their version of a fish pie would taste like, being a bit of a dab hand at them myself. This was the way to work, I thought, as a waiter rushed over to charge my glass at the very instant I mentally concluded I was running low, sitting here enjoying the company, the food and wine, this what I call a meeting. I didn’t even want to leave, on the contrary, I was actually disappointed when at 5pm my companion was obliged to see to other matters.

I left the restaurant feeling sated, a bit tipsy but very pleased with myself. I already knew my evening was pretty much consigned to a bath and TV then bed, but I couldn’t help having a glass or two of Chianti just to see me on my way.

Strange weekend coming up, everything is unplanned, in the air. I’m secretly hoping for a quiet one, things are due to hot up as the fucking festive bloody season opens it’s arse crack so perhaps relaxing at home wouldn’t be a bad idea. But before all that the Friday list and some jolly music.

Oh, the conclusion on The Fisherman’s Pie? It was, of course, excellent. It used similar ingredients, certainly the same sort of fish, a mustard sauce with a similar taste and texture (perhaps a little creamier) and it was certainly better than mine, but, and I don’t stutter here, only just.

Nice weekends all. (Except you cunts looking for abhorrent imagery, I hope you puke out all your insides)